


Physical Therapy

by C_aura (Coragyps)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester is Loved, Disordered Eating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Post-Purgatory, Sam Winchester is Loved, Season/Series 14, Sick Sam Winchester, nonsexual kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-21 07:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14280114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coragyps/pseuds/C_aura
Summary: Sometimes Dean just needs a job. Sam gives him one.





	1. Physical Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> These chapters are loosely connected on-shots, they're not really intended to be read as one piece.
> 
> Trying to get better about posting things, even if they're short.

When Sam was younger, he remembered their father sometimes giving Dean extra assignments after they finished PT.

Like the time John had told Dean to shovel the snow from the motel parking lot – even though they didn’t have the right kind of shovel for that, they only had the pointy-ended kind used to dig graves, and it would take forever. Sam had offered to help, but John ordered him to take a shower and get ready for bed.

Looking back on it, he realized that Dean had been wound up after a bad hunt in which a little girl had died. He had been snappy and irritable, punishing himself the way he always did - telling Sam he should finish off the cereal, not even drinking the beer John offered him, refusing an ice pack for his split knuckles.

And John had sent him out with a small shovel and a endless parking lot, after they'd already run laps around the garage where they'd been up on a stakeout.

Sam had raged, hating his father – didn’t Dean do enough for them? Wasn’t Dean as tired and sweaty as Sam was, and also needing rest? – but watching closely, his father didn’t act like Dean was in trouble. And typically when John Winchester was mad at you, you damn well knew it.

An hour or two of shoveling, he’d come back loose-limbed and relaxed. John had clamped a hand on the back of his neck, which was his version of a hug. "Go shower," he’d ordered. "I’m going out."

That night Sam had curled around Dean in bed, insisting on bullying in close and lying on his brother’s chest, practically on top of him. For once Dean hadn’t resisted, merely dropped a hand into Sam’s hair and petted him until they both fell asleep.

There were lots of times after that, when Sam thought about it more. It wasn’t always a physical assignment, either. Dean would be directed to clean the guns – guns that hadn’t been used and didn’t need cleaning – or fill out a whole stack of credit card applications, or change the oil in the Impala. Twice.

Sam hadn’t understood at first – Dean finished every training drill perfectly, without complaining; he made Sam lunches and took Sam to school; he went on hunts without flinching, he looked into the mouth of Hell and fired: he didn’t deserve to be punished. But when Sam protested, John just ruffled his hair and reminded him he had homework to finish.

John even used Sam to distract Dean sometimes – of course he did, Sam was Dean’s favorite preoccupation anyway. “Read Sam a story,” he’d say, tossing over some massive tome – ‘The Hobbit,’ or 'Gulliver's Travels,' or even just the Bible from the hotel desk. And Dean would, until his voice gave out or Sam begged him to stop. Or maybe little Sammy needed to be given a bath or a haircut (and nobody was more careful to preserve every inch of his brother’s soft locks than Dean) or have his clothes set out for tomorrow, maybe a few things mended – a seam repaired here, a shoelace worked back through a sneaker, some buttons sewed back on. Anything to occupy his hands.

Once John had taken a broken toaster and told Dean to sit at the table until he fixed it. It had taken Dean over three hours and a box of paperclips, but he’d done it.

Sam thought back to those days a lot lately, with Dean working himself to the edge of death.

After Purgatory, Dean had came back with the dials set wrong. He didn’t notice when he was hungry, or if he was cold, or if he had an arrowhead jammed through the meat of his shoulder. Injuries that would drive most men to their knees would be brushed off, at least until some body part stopped working and the inconvenience drove him to Sam for repairs.

It had slowly tapered off over time, as Dean got more in synch with his body again. He ate when he was hungry now. But hadn’t regained any of the body fat he’d lost in Purgatory, without losing an ounce of muscle. He looked lean and raw in a way that made Sam ache for him. He looked like a man who had lived a hard life. He looked like a man who needed care.

Now he paced around the bunker while Sam read, skulking around at the fringes of his brother's attention. All Sam could think about was John’s voice in his head, saying in that gruff voice, _Take care of your brother._

Sam closed the book he was reading (it was 'The Five Love Languages').

“I think I’m going to lie down for a while,” he said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “It’s five PM."

"I think I pulled something in my back," Sam lied. "Now my neck is killing me, and I'm getting a headache."

Dean drifted closer. "Did you drink enough water?"

"Ah!" Sam was taken by surprise when Dean’s cold hand slipped impatiently under his shirt. "Uh, I think so."

“Take this off,” said his brother, tugging on the flannel. “I want to check you out.”

Sam didn’t bother to point out the obvious double-entendre. He just went with it; this was the first spark of animation he’d seen on Dean’s face all day. He shrugged out of his shirts, smiling when Dean reached to help him work his arms through the holes, presumably in case he made his fictitious injuries worse.

There was still something reassuring, even after all these years, in knowing that Dean would always try to take care of him. Faithful, neurotic, stupid, loving Dean.

"What'd you do to yourself, doofus?"

"I dunno," said Sam. "Will you rub my back?"

"Sure. Go lie down, I'll be there in a minute." Dean, already looking brighter, strode off in the direction of his room.

Sam went next door to the room he had claimed for his own. He laid down slowly, shirtless.

It was relaxing, being alone in the bunker with only Dean. It was amazingly silent so deep underground. There wasn't a hint of the street noise or even the wind. Restful, like a tomb.

Sam closed his eyes. _Take care of your brother_ , he reminded himself.

He heard Dean come back and set something on the side table. "Get to work," Sam demanded, not opening his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." The sound of a bottle being opened, liquid pouring. It was so still that Sam could even hear the papery sound of him rubbing his hands together in preparation.

"Hurry up," Sam slurred.

"Demanding little bitch." But Dean’s hands, when they landed, were purposely gentle. He curled his thumb around the back of Sam’s neck with careful pressure. Sam sighed.

Dean began to work his thumbs into the muscles on either side of Sam’s spine, right underneath the curve of his skull. “Okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Feels good.”

Slow circles. If Sam actually had a headache, no doubt this would be releasing the tension expertly. Then Dean began to work down the line of Sam’s back, feeling carefully for anything out of place.

“I can’t find a knot,” he commented. “Are you sure you didn’t crack a rib?”

“S’not a rib,” Sam murmured, half buried in the pillowcase. “Keep going. Gonna take a while.”

“Here?”

“Mm, thereabouts.”

Dean began to work in broad strokes, stopping to apply fresh oil before his hands began to dry. Both boys knew how to give a rubdown as a medical treatment, but this didn’t feel much like that – it felt like petting, like you would do to a beloved shaggy dog that had lied down with its head in your lap.

Sam had never been happier to be that dog.

“Anyone ever tell you there’s too frigging much of you?” asked Dean, reapplying oil yet again, but Sam didn’t bother to answer. Dean was working his way out over the wings of Sam’s shoulder blades, the even, steady pressure like a hug. His hands were small compared to Sam’s, but they were strong, and he knew exactly how to use them.

Sam fell asleep before Dean finished tracing down his ribs, long before Dean got to the lateral muscles that even Sam’s workout routine couldn’t keep perfectly taut anymore. Not while they were living in comfort and plenty in the bunker. Cases that used to take weeks could be narrowed down with new tools – Frank’s backdoor access points, Charlie’s meticulous cross-referencing – and finished in an afternoon, now. And neither of them were as young as they used to be.

Sam didn’t feel Dean comb his fingers through still-soft brown hair, or trace a thumb over his forehead until his brow unwrinkled. Dean wiped his hands on a paper towel and drew a light sheet up over Sam’s shoulders before he got up.

“Thanks, little brother,” he whispered, turning out the light.


	2. Five Times Dean Mommed Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard the news today about Show and it inspired me to put something out there.

**1.**

"Your lips chapped?" asks Dean, narrowing his eyes.

Playing back the last sixty seconds, Sam realizes he’s licked his lips a couple times. It’s cold out here, the dry air harsh on his skin. "I guess."

They’re waiting for sundown and a black dog that may or may not exist here in the Minnesota lakes district. It’s at least ten below and the temperature is only going to drop from here.

Dean grunts, starts rummaging around in his pockets. "Hold on, I’ve got it somewhere. Here." He finally extracts an orange tube and holds it out to Sam, shaking it impatiently when Sam doesn’t reach for it. "It’s chapstick."

Sam looks down at his hands. Dean insisted he wear the ski mitts, claiming their other pair of gloves were too small for his ‘giant yeti paws.’ It was already a struggle to get them both on. “Nah, man, I’m good,” he says.

Dean scowls. "I can see you gnawing on those cinderblocks from here," he says. "You need chapstick."

"If the worst of our problems tonight is a lack of lipgloss, I’m going to count myself lucky," says Sam, just to annoy his brother with the implication that chapstick isn’t manly. He does like to get Dean puffed up, and it’s boring just waiting out here in the cold.

But Dean just shakes his head and makes for Sam, peeling off one of his own leather gloves (which are not as warm as ski mitts, Sam is positive). He catches Sam under the chin, holds his face still while he uncaps the tube.

"Erm, dude, what are you ..."

"Make the kissy face," Dean orders, pursing his own lips to demonstrate. Sam is so gob smacked that he actually does it, and Dean carefully applies the chapstick over his mouth, painting a double coat at the edges of Sam’s lips, which tend to crack. "There," he says, surveying his work critically. "You look beautiful, dollface."

He puts the tube away and shoves it back into the bowels of one of his pockets. Then puts his glove back on, claps his hands together a few times, and hunches forward into a waiting pose.

Sam presses his lips together experimentally. They do feel better. Especially the dry corners.

"Don’t make it weird," grunts Dean.

They never find that black dog.

**2.**

It was hard to stay mad at a man kneeling on a dirty bathroom floor, ironing your Fed Suit over the lid of the toilet. (Dean claimed that there was no other flat surface in the motel, and _he’d wiped it down, Sam, un-twist your panties_ ).

It had been a bad hunt, that was all. San had been knocked down by the ghoul he’d been chasing and Dean had – Dean had lost it. He’d taken out three of them with a baseball bat, his face expressionless, no emotion. Sam had been gasping on the floor but he’d managed to crawl over to his brother and get his attention.

Dean had seemed almost surprised to find himself intact.

Now Sam stood in the doorway and watched his brother trying to press a crisp collar on his good button-up.

Dean had gotten fussy lately about Sam’s clothes. He’d started to lay them out the night before, look everything over. Maybe there was a little stain, some mending, something – like the collar of the Fed Suit today – that needed a quick iron. Sometimes he tried to sneak in an extra layer.

“Dean,” said Sam, on an exhale so that it came out like a sigh. Time to see if he could drag his stubborn older brother into conversation.

“In a minute,” said Dean, checking the line of the white sleeve, folding it with precision. “You only get one chance to make a first impression, you know. Gotta dress for success.”

Sam remembered him saying that when they were kids, when he’d insist on buying Sam a couple outfits every year from a walmart instead of the thrift store. It was a pride thing, not wanting his little brother dressed only in hand-me-downs. He’d always wanted better for Sam then he’d had for himself.

“Dean …” said Sam.

“Look good, feel good,” Dean insisted. He carefully set the shirt aside and reached for the pants.

**3.**

It didn’t seem right, that a mother should have to call her son to take care of her own sick child. But what little she knew about her boys lives, it was clear that they had always taken care of each other.

Dean answered on the first ring. "What's up?"

“Well, it seems like your brother’s not feeling so great, actually. We think it’s a stomach flu.”

“I’m on my way back.” She could hear the door slam, realized he was probably leaving the auto parts store early because she had called. She felt bad, and she felt even worse because part of her was relieved.

Sam had been polite, but evasive. She hadn't gotten him to eat or drink anything, he clearly hadn't wanted her with him in his bedroom, and last time she'd poked her head in he'd blinked at her without recognition. 

It was maybe an hour later when Mary heard the familiar rumble of the Impala pulling into the bunker’s underground garage. She was feeling childish, like she had been forced to call for reinforcements on a hunt that she should have been able to handle solo. But she was still glad to go and meet Dean in the entrance and help him carry in the bags of groceries he had packed in the trunk. Dean could seem sunnier, a little easier to connect with than Sam, even though she knew that it was only on the surface. Underneath Dean was just as dark and brooding, just as dangerous.

Dean barely detoured to the kitchen to drop off the bags before he headed straight to Sam’s room. He barged in without knocking, already talking. “So what’s up, Sammy, I hear you’re letting a little stomach flu get you down, eh? Had it coming out of both ends, didn’t you. Ah, I tell you little bro, being human is a wonderful thing.”

Mary lingered at the door. Sam had sat up at the sound of his brother’s voice, his eyes fixed on Dean’s face. He looked years younger all of a sudden. His mouth screwed up in what was to Mary a very familiar pout. Her eyes filled with tears.

Dean bustled around him with easy assurance, checking his temp not with a fancy modern thermometer that had confounded Mary, but with the back of his hand, shaking his head and tutting. He got Sam sitting up, propped up by pillows, ruffled his hair, coaxed him into eating a banana by threatening to feed it to him – and then did feed him the last few bites, once Sam ran out of steam.

The tea that Sam had refused when Mary offered he accepted willingly now. He was suddenly soft-eyed and fond, allowing all the attention without complaint.

“Yeah, you’re about done up, ain’tcha," Dean murmured, when Sam latched onto his shirtsleeve and held it. "C'mon, baby bro, let's get you settled in. You'll feel better in the morning."

Mary ducked out without either of them noticing.

**4.**

Hours later, Mary put down her cup of whiskey-laced cocoa and walked slowly down the hallway towards the bedrooms. It was quiet, although she had been hearing doors opening and closing, the shower turning on and off.

She went to Sam’s room first, but it was empty. She checked Dean’s next and found both her boys asleep on top of the covers, Sam’s head tucked into Dean’s shoulder.

They used to sleep like that when Sam was a baby, too.

Both of them looked exhausted. She covered Sam with a blanket, stroking his hair out of his face. He stirred, face wrinkling.

She knew she wasn’t what the boys deserved. But she did love them both – Dean’s gruff tenderness, so much like John’s – and clever, earnest Sam, who reminded her of her own father on a good day.

Sam made a soft sound, almost what could be called a whimper.

Dean raised an arm – her gaze darted to his face, but he was asleep – to cradle Sam’s head, scratching his hair like a dog. His palm stayed there, protective, fingers twitching. So much like her John that it made Mary’s eyes fill with tears.

Sam hummed in contentment and slipped deeper into sleep.

**5.**

“You going somewhere?”

Sam paused in the doorframe of the hotel du jour. “Just the library,” he said. “I’ve got a hunch on this horse spirit.”

“Hold on.” Dean scowled, turned to rummage through his duffel.

"What?"

He approached with Sam’s black knit beanie in his hand. All the way up into Sam’s personal space. “Your hair’s wet,” he grumbled, fingering one damp strand accusingly. “It’s cold out, dummy. You trying to get sick?”

"It's like forty degrees!"

Dean pulled the hat down over Sam’s head, snug over his ears. “There.”

Sam sighed.

 


	3. I've Got You

Dean wants Sammy to be proud of himself. He really does.

Here’s Dean back from Michael, from another round of what was basically Hell - and this time, instead of Sammy being all dark and emo, doing stupid shit and trusting skeevy bitches, his brother is leading a battalion, teaching all those alt-world soldiers how to hunt. He’s not even doing it by the John Winchester method, the only way Dean ever learned – blood and whiskey, live short and die ugly. No, not Sammy. He’s organized and disciplined the way they never have been … check-ins and body cameras and, and _shift schedules,_ hand to God, and probably time sheets and overtime wages and vacations. There’s a lot of the Men of Letters in Sammy. And he knows it means a lot to Sam that these people trust him and listen to him. 

He can even tell their mom and Sam have gotten closer, and Dean’s not a total asshole, okay, he wanted that for both of them. His mom dreamed that they would be book smart, sensitive, like Sam is.

Dean wants to be proud. He really does. He knows this should be a sign that his job is over, little brother has truly grown up. The student has surpassed the master, etc. It’s not even the first time it’s really been driven home how much better off Sammy is without him, given the chance to step up, to shine.

But the truth is, Dean isn’t glowing with parental pride. He’s sore and shattered from Michael, and realizing that everybody is better off without him is kind of the fucked-up icing on a fucked-up cake. Mary has the son she always wanted, the ghost of Henry Winchester is probably pleased as punch, Jack and Cas are off playing happy families away from Dean’s disapproval. If he could have just thrown himself into the empty it would have been one big happy ending.

Dean once told Sam that he’s been down before, and it’s true: Dean knows what it’s like to stare into the eyes of Hunger and feel nothing. And he’s battled his way back, more than once. But he always had Sam’s need to help him do it. What he can’t do for himself, he can do for Sam. What is he going to do now that he’s confronted with the incontrovertible evidence that Sam doesn’t need him at all?

“Hey.” His big little brother, all eight feet of him, slumps down into one of the Bunker’s wooden ladder-back chairs. He’s dressed in green checked flannel and about two days of stubble, if Dean’s any judge.

“Hey yourself,” says Dean. “You hungry?” It’s just after six AM; Dean’s not sleeping well these days, but not because he has anything specific he needs to be doing like Sam does. Sometimes he gets up just to clean the kitchen from top to bottom – that’s not weird, right? – and maybe to put on a pot of oatmeal like Sam likes, brown sugar and raisins, maybe they still have walnuts if none of the alt-world hunters have found them.

“Actually, not really, man,” says Sam, opening his laptop. Of course he’s not. He’s probably already had one of his vegan powerbars or whatever, doesn’t want one of his brother’s messy plates of slop. Dean sits back down. “You know, you shouldn’t be in here cleaning up after everybody. I can – I can talk to the guys, tell them they need to do a better job picking up after themselves. They shouldn’t be leaving messes for you.”

“Nah.” The truth is, they aren’t, not beyond what's expected for a group this size. Dean just – doesn't like the thought of stranger’s fingerprints all over his private spaces.

“There’s coffee,” he suggests, a minute later, unable to keep the words in his mouth although he’s cursing himself for saying anything. It just – it hurts so much not to have anything to offer. He misses the days when he could make a whole meal in this kitchen for Sammy, all the right food groups just like the internet talks about, and they’d sit down here together ( _only_ together, with nobody else wandering through looking for lamb’s blood or wheat germ) while he made it - Sam on his laptop, Dean in his element. And then he got the satisfaction of watching Sam eat food that he’d prepared, knowing that it would go to charging up all that mass, keeping him fit, keeping him fighting at Dean’s side.

He doesn't know if they’ll ever get back to that, the way he is now.

“Uh, sure.” Sam is distracted, but he’s humoring him. Dean can tell. “Coffee would be good.”

So Dean gets up and pours him a mug, pathetically grateful for something to do. He sets it down by Sam’s elbow, far enough that it won’t be knocked over when Sam forgets it’s there. It will probably go cold, untouched, unwanted, until Dean comes back to pour it out.

Dean doesn’t sit back down. He should go. He’s no good to anyone when he gets like this – why else does he hole up in his bedroom all day - and he can’t stand the thought of becoming another item on Sam’s endless to-do list; _check salt supplies_ ;  _prop up flagging big brother for the ten millionth time._ Dean can picture the bullets written in Sam’s neurotic tiny print.

“I’m gonna hit the head,” he says, wishing he could reach out and pat his brother’s shoulder or something before he went, punch him in the arm maybe. Maybe squeeze the back of his neck the way he used to do when Sam got all frustrated and flustered, during the years of teenage angst.

“Wait,” says Sam.

Dean waits. He’s not really in a position to disregard instructions from Sam right now.

Sam hooks him by his shirt sleeve, tugs him back down to the chair he’d vacated. Dean sits, amused when Sam’s grip just slides up the cotton to keep hold of him as he moves.

“Dean, I want to ask you something,” says Sam, but then he pauses. Dean tucks his ankle around the table leg, hopes it’s not going to be _how much sleep are you getting_ or _what are you eating lately?_ He doesn’t want to feel managed. Maybe it’s _there’s a nasty hunt and I need you to take it_ – that would suit him a lot better right now.

But whatever it is, Sammy won’t spit it out. “Dude, what?” says Dean. He doesn’t know why Sam’s hesitating. He’ll give his brother whatever he wants – always has. He’s pretty damn happy just to have Sam’s attention at the moment.

“It’s … it’s sort of weird,” says Sam.

“Weird is kinda our thing.”

“Yeah, not … not this kind of weird.” Sam rubs a hand over his face. He looks like crap. Dean’s little brother, the kid that used to bounce on the bed for an hour before bedtime – and now his skin is sallow and lined, his hair is greasy, his fingers jitter across the table like a junkie jonseing for a hit.

“These hunters, they’re – depending on me,” says Sam. “And mom. And Cas, and Jack.”

 _And me_ , Dean adds, his guts churning with guilt.

“It was one thing when you were missing, because I had a goal then, and I knew that if I could – if I could just get you back, that was all that mattered in the end.”

“And you did get me back, Sammy,” says Dean cautiously.

“I didn’t get you back, you just – turned up, just like – just like after Hell, after Purgatory. Nothing I did made any difference to you, again.”

“Hey, I knew you were out there, fighting the good fight. That’s the only reason I can – that’s the only reason I can keep going, most days, Sammy,” Dean admits. “You gotta know that by now.”

“I do. It’s the same for me.” Sam’s right hand is still lingering at Dean’s elbow. “But now, I – a lot of people are counting on me. _Me._ They need me to be confident, to be a leader. I gotta – I gotta make the right decisions, yeah, but I also have to _act_ like I don’t have any doubts. Like I’m certain. And I’m – Dean, I’m never 100% certain.”

“Hey, hey, nobody is,” says Dean. He hates when Sammy started beating himself up. “Do you think Dad was sure, all those hunts, all those years? He wasn’t, he couldn’t have been.”

“I don’t want to be like Dad,” Sam bitchfaces.

“Okay, Bobby then – our Bobby – or Professor Xaviar, Yoda, whoever you’re trying to channel. They couldn’t know anything for sure any more than you do. They lost people sometimes, or they made the wrong call, but then they dusted themselves off and kept going.”

“I know,” says Sam, closing his eyes. “But Dean, it’s so _hard._ And I – I worry that I’m losing it. That I won’t be strong enough, that I’ll crack.”

“Hey, there’s nobody in the world that I’d want quarterbacking the team other than you, Sammy,” says Dean, leaning forward, his voice automatically dropping to the coaxing tone he used to use to get little Sammy to brush his teeth and get into his pajamas. Sue him, Dean can’t turn these things off.

Sam turns his face into Dean’s voice, his eyes still closed, their faces close enough that Dean can feel the warm air he's exhaling. Okay, Dean knows what this is. Sometimes Sammy just gets a little wound up, that big brain of his overheating – call it anxiety, call it whatever – and he needs someone to help him settle down: put on a movie and get some food in him maybe, get him joking around, get him to … unclench. With all the people in the bunker you’d think there would be one of them that Sam can be friendly with, but maybe since he put on the Captain's hat he’s been denying himself.

Dean feels his own shoulders come down from his ears. This, he can do. If Sammy just needs a court jester, that’s – that could be a good role for Dean, maybe. He used to be good at it, in the days Sammy was an over-wrought toddler wanting to watch Thundercats when what he really needed was a nap, or a middleschooler stressed out about school – it had always been Dean’s job to coax him through it, remind him that he was Kid Einstein and that of course he was going to ace that test or win over that grouchy witch at the front of the classroom.

Yeah, maybe Dean can find someone else to cover the phones for a day, maybe take them for a long drive, go see some weird roadway attraction. Sam likes those. Or hell, maybe they can just hide in the Dean Cave, watch a movie or something. Maybe they could do that thing, where Sam falls asleep on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean could fuss over him a little, tuck him into a blanket and pet his stupid hair. Yeah, that would be a pretty good day.

“I want you to tie me up,” says Sam.

Dean’s brain stutters to a stop. “Wh-what?”

Sam isn’t looking at him. “It’s – it’s something that helps, when I – when I start to feel out of control like this. But I haven’t been able to do it in a long time. And I … I really need it, Dean. I was lying in bed for hours just wishing that – that somebody would help me, and I decided I’d ask you. But I understand if it’s too weird.”

So there goes Dean’s plan of Porky’s 3 and takeout.

The truth is, Dean can’t pretend he’s surprised that Sam has some, uh, wires crossed around that kind of thing. The shit they’ve seen in their lives? You don’t come through that with all your edges lining up. Dean has his own stuff to deal with and he knows Sam must too. They just don’t usually bring that stuff to … each other.

“Is this like … a sex thing, to you?” he asks cautiously, taking a sip of coffee to disguise any expression that isn’t ready for prime time. He’s proud of how his voice comes out: steady and even, without any hint of judgment.

“No!” Sam sputters. “No, it’s not a – not a sex thing! I’m not – I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t ask you if it was.”

That comes as a relief to Dean, who might know a little more about both sides of the playing field than he likes to talk about, but is not looking to explore that with his own little brother. Kind of hard to get amped up at the thought of getting down with the kid you once gave the birds and bees talk to (“ _but Dean, how could anybody do that?? It’s disgusting!_ ”).

“It’s just – it’s something I started doing with Jess sometimes, when I’d get stressed out with school. And then, uh I mean Ruby tried, but I couldn’t – I couldn’t let her do that. But with Amelia, and then Eileen, sometimes …”

“So this is something you do with chicks you’re sleeping with.”

“No, no, it’s not – it’s not part of that, for me. It’s just … I have to trust the person, and there’s not that many people that I could ask. I’ve wanted … I’ve wanted to ask you, because you’re – man, you’re the one person I trust most of all, out of anyone. And I know you’ll – you’ll take care of me. But it always seemed too weird. And I wouldn’t have brought it up, but I’m … I’m crawling out of my skin here, and I need to be top of my game and there’s nobody I can ask except – except you.”

Sam’s voice is getting tight, his chest starting to jerk with those anxious little breaths that he takes when he starts getting too wound up. Dean puts a hand around his wrist, remembering after a beat that this was the way he always touched Sam when he got like this - one hand tight around the bones of his skinny little wrists. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, it’s fine,” Dean murmurs, and in spite of himself he raises his other hand to catch Sam’s jaw, pull it up so he has Sam’s eyes. Then he combs back Sam’s greasy bangs because that’s what Dean does, he’s a fixer. And it turns out Sam still has a few places that need fixing.

Sam lets his head drop forward, into Dean’s chest. He has to fold himself up to fit, but he manages. Dean’s hand automatically slides around the back of his neck, cradling the crown of his head, tugging him in tight and holding him there. Sam’s breaths are still hitching, so Dean lets his hand slide down his spine, rubbing his back until he can feel his inhales even out.

“It’s not a big deal, Sammy,” he mutters. “In the scheme of things this is nothing, okay? It’s a blip on the radar, really.” Sam is nuzzling into his chest, exactly the same way he used to do as a cuddly little kid who just wanted to be held all the time. Dean is half expecting him to start sucking on his shirt buttons, just like he used to do.

“So you don’t mind?” Sam whispers.

Dean tries to imagine it.

One of the things he was stuck with after Hell is a not-inconsiderable craving for death and dismemberment, which he’s kept on a careful lockdown outside of certain critical-information-gathering situations ever since. The red hot part of his brain, which was activated even further by the Mark, can still surprise him sometimes. And if Michael used his body for all the violence that Dean even half remembers, he better check himself carefully before he responds.

He needs to make sure there isn’t one iota of his new nature that would take the opportunity to do Sam any harm. Even just scare him a little, push him too far. Dean has a lot of mental space dedicated to Sam – some have called it a fixation – and there’s a fair amount of frustration in there as well, no doubt mirrored by Sam’s own towards him. They’re two different people who are always pulled in each other’s orbits, no matter what else they’re trying to achieve. It’s worth checking.

But no – until the very height of his demonic transformation he hadn’t really wanted to hurt Sam. Get away from him, sure, or throw him off the trail, or make him obey – yes. But enjoying his pain, not really. This doesn't sound that hard.

“Okay,” he says.

Sam sits up. “Really? Okay? Just like that?”

“Sure, Sammy, if this will help you, if it’s something you need. I’m here for you.”

Sam is silent, chewing his lip.

“What?” says Dean. Maybe Sam was just messing with him? Wasn’t serious? That’s a pretty crappy trick but Dean can probably still play it off. He’s got post-archangel brain damage over here, after all, that excuse ought to be good for the next year.

“It’s just that – you’re incredible, Dean,” Sam breathes. “No matter what freaky thing I come up with, you’re just going to roll with it and pretend it’s totally fine.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I have my limits,” says Dean, who doesn’t. “But this isn’t such a big thing, Sammy. So you like a little slap-and-tickle outside of the bedroom. You think most people don’t have something way worse, with about half as much to deal with?”

“Oh my god it’s not _slap and tickle_ , Dean! It’s just – it’s relaxing, okay? It’s like, I’m not responsible for anything. I get to just … just be, I guess.”

It’s always kind of cute when Sam gets embarrassed. His cheeks get pink and he can’t look up, lets his hair fall in his face so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. He looks about ten years old again.

“Sammy, I said it’s fine. I’m cool with it. Just tell me how you want this to play out and I’m there, okay? And we don’t have to talk about this ever again, if you don’t want to. This is Vegas as far as I’m concerned.”

Sam’s eyes are soft, which means it’s Dean who’s going to struggle to keep eye contact next. Don’t tell anyone, but his little brother is kind of a sap.

“You are such a sap,” Sam whispers.

Dean snorts. “C’mon, give me the game plan, Chief. Or do you want me to do the planning? Is that part of this?”

“No, no, of course not. I – I have something in mind. It’s … it’s just pretending that I’m not in charge that matters. It’s not real.”

 _We’ll see about that,_ thinks Dean. Maybe with pretty girls it was all pretend, but Dean isn’t just acting like he’s responsible for Sammy; he really is. He doesn’t say anything though. If Sam’s worked up the courage to ask for this, Dean won’t be the one who makes it weird.

“So, lay it on me. What do you want, the bedroom, with those fuzzy cuffs? The chains in the dungeon, what?”

Sam licks his lips. “I’ve got – rope, soft rope. It doesn’t chafe.”

Clever Sammy can already guess where Dean’s boundaries are going to be. Dean wonders if he had to teach those other girls how to do it right, how to keep from cutting off circulation without leaving so much slack that there’s no hold. Well, he doesn’t need to teach Dean. They both know how to tie up what needs tying.

“As for where, well, it’s kind of hard to find enough privacy in the bunker these days,” Sam is saying. “But I was thinking there’s that basement room where the pool table was?”

They’d pulled the pool table upstairs, but the smoking lounge is still down there. And best of all pretty much nobody knows about it.

“Does the door lock?” asks Dean. There’s always so many people underfoot now, and he doesn’t really trust any of them, not even alt-world Bobby.

“Not only does that door lock, but the door at the end of the hallway locks too.” Oh yeah, Sam hasn’t put a lot of thought into this.

“Do you want to be – tied to something?” asks Dean, thinking of ceiling hooks or maybe a good wingback chair – there’s plenty of them down there. Might be more comfortable.

But Sam shakes his head no. “Just – on the carpet.”

“Whatever you need,” says Dean. “When do you want to do it?”

“Tonight? Maybe after – after most people are in bed?”

“I want you to get your sleep, not stay up even later,” Dean objects. “If we’re doing this, you have to take a nap this afternoon. At least an hour.”

“A nap.” Sam sounds unimpressed.

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“I can’t sleep during the day, Dean, we’re down two people already with mom and Bobby out, and Cas and Jack are still out in the field …” Sam must see something in Dean’s face, because he breaks off.

“You know what? Okay. I’ll nap. But you have to be with me.”

Dean shrugs. So he’ll read a book or something and keep an eye on little bro. No problem. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

They don’t shake on it because among the Winchesters your word is enough. They just part ways with a nod and get back to business.

 

Dean ends up spending the morning manning the phones, and truth be told it's not all bad. He knows he’s been spending too much time in his room, but he figured it’d be best to get out of everyone’s way, deal with his own little freakouts the way he always has – by pushing through them.

But talking to people he hasn’t heard from in too long, like Garth and Donna – it doesn't feel quite as bad as he thought. Nobody says anything shitty to him about letting an angel wear his body and ruin the world. Nobody asks how he’s feeling. People are working cases and they need help and they’re glad to have someone on the other end of the line, that’s all. And if usually at the end they say something like “good to have you back,” well, that’s as far as it goes. Dean doesn’t argue with them about whether it’s good or not, just wraps it up before the next line starts to ring.

He knows Sam is working with his team on the other end of the bunker, probably doing drills or study sessions or whatever these people do together. It used to make Dean feel weird but now it just seems – kinda normal.

At noon, Dean sends one of the younger hunters (so sue him, he still can’t tell all the people who’ve moved into his house apart) into the kitchen to put together some sandwiches or something. He doesn’t want to be the one to go in and break up the party, force food down Sam’s throat in front of everyone. Sam might not want to be undermined like that. But he does tell the kid where he hid the good mustard and to put it into Sam’s hand when he makes his rounds, and reminds him that there’s a apple in the bowl on the sideboard with Sam’s name on it. The kid doesn’t point out how weird he’s being, just shuffles off to get it done. Dean pours himself another coffee with a heavy shot of JD and gets back to work.

The kid comes back with an empty tray about an hour later. Dean isn’t going to ask if Sam ate. He does notice that the level of mustard has dropped, hopes that’s a good sign.

“Hey.” He looks up; the surly kid’s standing in front of him now.

“Yeah?”

“Sam says, fair’s far.” He offers up a ripe banana.

Dean sighs and holds out his hand for it. “Thanks. I guess.”

At 1PM Dean gets up and dusts off his hands. “Hey, kid.”

“Jason,” says the kid.

“Great. Jason. I need to do something for Sam. Can you keep an eye on the phones?”

“Levi is the backup on the phones in the afternoons,” says Jason, probably doing a mental check of Sam’s stupid print-out schedule.

“Whelp, I don’t see him or know who he is, and I’ve got to go. I trust you to get it done,” says Dean, thumping him on the back. “Call Levi or call someone else, just don’t call me.”

He’s glad to escape the ring that sends the kid scrambling in the next minute.

He walks down the hall to Sam’s bedroom, wondering if Sam is going to try to welch, planning his counter attack if that happens. But Sam’s sitting on his bed like a good boy, stripped out of his outer flannel and jeans. He’s looking at his watch but he looks up and smiles when Dean stands in the doorway.

“You made it,” he says.

Dean shrugs, comes to sit down on the bed.

“Thanks for that sandwich.”

“Think that was Jason.”

“It was Levi, actually. But he said the scary dude on the phones made him do it. Said he was afraid he’d get punched if he didn’t.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Like he would have really hurt the kid. “So you ate?”

“Yes, finished my plate like a good boy,” says Sam, rolling his eyes. “Did you?”

Dean got through at least half of that banana and a few pretzels, which is about as much as he’s used to managing in one sitting, so he doesn’t feel bad nodding. Michael didn’t eat, and maybe that messed with his digestion, or maybe it’s stress, (since that one time Jimmy Novak went for burgers even while Cas was still wearing him) but it’s taking him a while to get back into the swing of things.

“We’ll try something easy tonight,” says Sam, frowning at him, worried. Dean didn’t come here to worry Sam.

“It’s getting better,” he says, opening the front of his own jeans and stepping out in just his boxers, like Sam is wearing. Nap wear.

Sam pulls the sheets back on his bed. They seem kind of dusty, Dean can’t help but notice. He wonders if Sam’s been sleeping in that big chair in the library. It’s not good for his back.

“Are you going to lie down?” asks Sam.

“What, me? No. I’m just going to sit here and read a book.” Dean holds up _On the Road._

Sam looks like he’s thinking about arguing, but he holds his peace; a deal’s a deal, and Dean said he would stay, not sleep. Sam climbs into the bed and tries to get comfortable, whacking the pillow a few times.

“This is stupid,” he says.

So Dean plops down next to him, close enough that their sides are touching, which he pretends not to notice. The heat of Sam’s body bleeds through the blankets.

“I’m not going to be able to sleep,” warns Sam. “I promised I would try, but it’s not going to happen. I probably had too much caffeine.”

Dean takes his book out, makes a big show of finding his page. Clears his throat and settles in.

“I’m not even tired,” mutters Sam, flopping back.

Dean has the extra pillow behind his back, wonders if Sam wants that, doesn’t offer. He’s going to be sitting here for at least an hour, and his back’s not all the way up to snuff either, you know. One too many times he’s been thrown through a window or slammed up against a wall. A man needs lumbar support.

Sam is still grumbling to himself under his breath. It’s kind of cute, although Dean wouldn’t tell him so. He really is still like a little kid sometimes.

It takes Sam maybe five minutes of lying in the semi darkness of the bedroom to completely conk out. Dean knows he hasn’t been getting much sleep but it might be even worse than he thought, because Sam is dead to the world – curled up on his side drooling into the pillow. He’s gonna be snoring soon, and – yep, there it is. Sam only honks like that when he’s either coming down with something or he’s really crashed.

Dean sits there pretending to read, listening to his brother’s raspy snores and occasionally taking a fond peek at his slack, stupid face.

The next time he opens his eyes he feels heavy and slow, the way he only gets when he’s been asleep a long time. His chin is down on his chest like an old man at the bar.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. He hates napping during the day – he wakes up disoriented and out of it until he finally gets to sleep for real. “Sammy,” he mutters, gently shaking his brother’s shoulder. Sam rolls over and tries to bury his head in Dean’s lap.

“Whoa-ho-ho, there, Sammy! That’ll be enough of that. No funny business, little brother. Wake up.”

Sam sits up slowly, shaking his head. “Time izzit?”

Dean checks his phone. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh crap. Crap! You were supposed to wake me up at 2:00! Is it past 2:00?"

It's 3:30. “Don’t worry about it,” says Dean. "Nobody came looking. You're fine."

Sam is still bitching as they ease their way up, bones and joints creaking audibly. Dean feels twice his real age on a good day, and there haven't been too many good days lately.

Although this one is looking up.

“Well at least I kept up my end of the deal,” says Sam, shrugging back into his faded flannel.

“Hey, I’m good for mine too. You go do your Captain America thing, I’ll meet you downstairs tonight. Okay?”

“Here.” Sam walks over to his closet and stretches up – okay, he doesn't have to stretch very far, it's more of a casual reach – to bring down a wooden box like the kind that the Men of Letters used to hold a shoe polish kit. Except Sam’s contains, when Dean opens it, white jute rope and a silk eye mask. There’s a pair of blunt safety scissors underneath, which is probably smart thinking.

Dean takes it without a word. They exchange a look, nod, and part ways.

 

Dean checks that everything in the box seems okay. The rope isn’t frayed anywhere. Dean kind of likes the way it feels in his hands, soft but strong. It’s white, seems clean. He doesn’t wonder how many times it’s been used before. The sleep mask is made of some shiny material (satin? Dean doesn’t really know these things). It’s an extra large, which makes him smile. Gigantor little brothers are too big for the normal size of anything. He sits for some time just feeling the soft inside lining, because the silky fabric reminds him of … well, something he doesn’t need to be thinking about when his brother’s involved. Good times.

He's trying not to over-think this. It’s hard not to picture how the night might go, exactly what Sammy might want him to do, whether he’d be able to do it. But his life as a hunter has taught him that some things – a wraith jumping out of nowhere in a graveyard, say – you were better off trying not to anticipate.

He manages to choke down a few bites of whatever the alt-world hunters put together for dinner. He thinks it started out as meatloaf. If he eats it standing over the sink and has to wash it down with two beers, that’s between him and the garbage disposal he installed. One of the little shits – now he doesn’t know who’s Jason and who’s Levi – invites him over to sit with them but he waves them off and avoids Sam’s disappointed face. He retreats back into his own room to listen to their dad's records for a few hours. John Winchester was a lot of things, and sometimes Dean wishes he could go back in time and punch him in the nuts, but the man knew good music. And even after all these years, Dean still misses the sense that someone else is in charge.

He wonders if that’s how Sammy is feeling. If so it manifests a little differently – noticeably less gratuitous sex and booze. It would be weird if Sam felt at all about him like he does about their dad. Dean always fell down on the job of keeping Sammy safe, even when they were kids, starting way back at that first shtriga. Or even earlier, probably. Dean didn’t know anything about little kids, he didn’t give Sammy the right kind of food, didn’t give him the right kind of toys, didn’t make the world safer for him. Everything Sammy became, he did it in spite of how he was raised, not because of it.

“Dean?”

Sam is standing in the doorway, doing that lame half-assed knock where his knuckles skim the frame as he’s already leaning inside. It’s Dean’s fault for leaving the door open really.

Dean wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah Sammy? You need something?”

“Just brought you some dessert. Sarah made apple pie.”

Dean doesn't want to say that he doesn't know which one Sarah is, or that he doesn't think he's up to even something he loves as much as pie. His stomach is still weird about big meals, and he isn't feeling so hot after the meatloaf. But he is kind of glad that his brother has chosen to leave all those other people in the dining room and come find him instead, even though they’re going to see each other later.

“Come on in, Sammy,” he says, patting the bed. Maybe he can kind of shuffle the pie around, take a couple bites and make it look like he ate it all. It does smell pretty good. Funny that one of these strangers just happened to decide to make his favorite comfort food.

Sam comes to sit next to him. He’s doing that thing where he’s watching Dean while pretending not to watch him. Dean doesn’t think the garbage disposal is very good at keeping secrets.

“I told everybody that you’re a great cook when the mood strikes you,” says Sam, leaning forward on his knees. “I think they want to see what you can do.”

Dean hasn’t tried to cook anything since he got back. The kitchen is always too full of strangers. “I dunno, Sammy,” he says, “Maybe.”

“I’m sorry things are so chaotic right now,” Sam says, low. “I know after something like that, you probably wish we had the place to ourselves.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” says Dean at once, because he can tell Sam is working up to feeling guilty about something that’s not really his fault. “This place was always meant to have a whole team of people living here, we were – we were pretty spoiled having it for just the two of us. We never even went in half the rooms.”

“Well yeah but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t nice.” Sam pulls out the side table and puts the pie in front of him, nudges it a little closer. It’s steaming faintly, a perfect triangle arranged on one of the Men of Letters’ crisp white plates with silver rims. Not subtle, Sam sets the fork down at a 45 degree angle off the slice and pushes it a little closer. “Dig in.”

“Did you already have some?” Dean picks up the fork, stalls for time.

“Yep. A slice about twice that size, and I don’t even like desserts.”

“Everybody likes desserts. Who doesn’t like desserts, that’s crazy talk.” Dean is taking tiny slices from around the outside, breaking the crust into pieces. It’s not that it doesn’t look good or smell good, and obviously it’s kind of cute that Sam is trying to mother-hen him after being the lifetime recipient of what _may_ – just may – be Dean’s tendency to overdo it, based on the feedback he gets pretty consistently from their entire extended circle. But he doesn’t think he can do the crust. It’ll be dry, he’ll probably choke on it, it’ll be a whole thing.

“You want a big slice of cheddar?”

Dean’s stomach twists. “What?”

“That’s how you used to like it. Apple pie and cheese. Right?”

Jeez, Dean was a real pig because he knows Sam’s right, he did used to like it that way, but he can’t imagine getting it down now. Maybe a little bit of the filling, that’s – that’s basically just applesauce. He used to make Sammy eat applesauce when he was sick, from those little plastic tubs with the metal tops.

“You remember when you were little, maybe eight, you got that ear infection?” Hesitantly, Dean lifts the spoon to his lips, hopes it won’t be too sweet. He doesn’t think he could handle a strong blast of sugar right now.

Sam laughs. “That’s what you want to talk about while you eat?” He’s being too obvious, clearly he’s been monitoring Dean more than he thought, and he’s not playing around with this pie. Dean’s guessing he knows exactly who put the idea in Sally’s head.

He takes a bite. It’s not too sweet. It’s … it’s pretty good actually. As long as he stays away from the crust he can get it down.

“Yeah?” Sam sounds way too eager.

Dean shakes his head, but he knows he’s smiling. “You want to quit hovering and let a guy eat?”

“I’m not doing anything! I’m just – it’s good to see you enjoying something. I kind of noticed that you haven’t been putting much away lately. I’m pretty sure all you’ve eaten this week is pizza.”

It’s true that if Dean can distract himself with a movie or something he can usually get down a couple slices. Gotta fuel the machine somehow. Dean takes another bite. He puts a hand on his stomach.

“Hey, did I tell you I talked to Jack about their hunt?” Dean suspects Sam is trying to talk to him so he can get the pie down, and honestly he’s just grateful. He makes an encouraging noise and keeps his eyes on his brother’s hands, which are gesturing wildly while he talks, describing the details of the hunt.

“…and I think Jack’s really got the makings of a great hunter,” he finishes, five minutes later. “Do you want another piece?”

Dean looks down. The pie is gone, everything but that one piece of crust he didn’t feel up to tackling. He doesn’t feel sick. In fact he feels … pretty good.

“Nah, I’m okay. Thanks Sammy.”

Sam thwacks him on the shoulder, gets up, takes the plate and the fork.

“See you tonight,” Dean calls after him, quietly.

 

Dean has limited himself to only one more beer by the time the bunker gets quiet. He’s been keeping busy with a book that he actually read this time, and a tall glass of lemonade. He hears the feet in the hallway as the crowd thins, people going to their rooms, sometimes alone, sometimes together. Nobody comes in to bother Dean. He knows he should be trying harder, wishing people goodnight. Maybe another time.

When it’s over he toes of his shoes but leaves his socks on so he can move quietly. Usually he would say that socks aren’t sexy, but he’s not planning on taking off any layers. That said, he does change into a clean shirt, one of his olive green thermals. It’s not like he’s dressing up for Sammy obviously, I mean, they’ve seen each other every which way, covered in slime, sweaty and gross from three days’ camping, bloody and bruised after another fight. Sammy’s not going to be interested in the color of his shirt. But … this one is Dean’s favorite. It’s worn soft.

He takes a last sip of lemonade and strolls down to the basement stairs with the box, expecting to run into someone any second and have to explain himself. He’s got the book tucked under his arm for authenticity. But nobody stops him. He’s really glad their mom is on her sex vacation so there’s no way he’ll have to explain this to her. Small mercies.

He tells himself that Sammy may have bailed, and that’s fine. This was supposed to be something he wanted, something he asked Dean to help him with, and if he’s changed his mind that’s no problem either.

But Sam is sitting there in one of the wingback chairs, looking relaxed, and Dean can’t help but notice that he’s changed as well, into pajama pants and a grey long-sleeved v neck. Looks pretty soft too.

“Hey,” says Sam, softly.

“Am I late?”

“No, I just – figured I’d come down a little early, make sure the room looked good.”

“Well, I got the box.” Dean has decided that he needs to keep this brisk, so it doesn’t get too weird. Jump right into it, don’t drag out the awkwardness. He knows his little brother and he knows he probably doesn’t want to beat around the bush either. “So how do you want to get started? You want to move to the floor?”

“Y-yeah.” There it is, just a hint of little brother wavering. Dean knows he has to keep relaxed himself, his body language open, if he doesn’t want Sam to freak. But Sam stands up readily, slides himself down onto the soft carpet and sits cross legged, his hands on his knees.

“Alright,” says Dean. “What do you think, wrists first? In front, or behind?”

Sam holds them out willingly, together. In front – does that mean he’s feeling less comfortable? Behind is more restrictive. But Dean isn’t going to argue, this is Sam’s thing. He already threw a few loops of rope, back in the room, just making sure he understands how it lays knots. He pulls Sam’s wrists forward and holds them in one hand, not too tight, before sliding a circle of rope around them.

Sam sucks in a breath. Exhales.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

So Dean does, a few good tugs and a couple of circles, then he can wind the rope around itself, tuck it underneath so Sam’s cinched up good. He pretends not to be monitoring his brother’s expression, but he totally is the entire time. For all he knows this could set Sam off or something. He’s seen enough shit in his life. Maybe it won’t be fun when it’s not a pretty girl. It must be a lot different with a big guy – even if nobody’s really that big compared to Sam – instead of somebody giggly and nervous, looking to Sam for direction, careful not to put one toe over the line. Or maybe he’s not giving Jessica enough credit. Maybe it was her idea, maybe she’d done it before. Dean isn’t going to ask yet. There’s time.

But Sam doesn’t make any protest, no visible reaction at all except that his eyes seem a little heavier lidded than when they started. Or maybe Dean’s imagining it.

“Is it okay if we talk during?” asks Sam, when Dean finally drops his wrists. Dean left a long leader of rope that he could use for anything, not sure where they’re going, still trying not to over-think it.

“Of course it’s okay. This is for you, so whatever you need is okay with me.”

“I don’t want it to be – rough,” says Sam, on an exhale. His voice is a little high pitched, a little fast; he must be really nervous. Dean does a quick check to make sure it’s not because he’s freaking out – Dean can get to those safety scissors and have him out of there in no time flat. But he doesn’t seem like he’s about to lose it, just that he’s got a little extra color in his cheeks. Embarrassment, probably.

“Is this too rough?” asks Dean.

“No, this is – this is fine. I just. I wanted to let you know. I don’t want you to like, jerk me around or – or twist the rope tight, or anything.”

“Okay, then I won’t.”

“No pulling. Just keep everything slow and steady, just like you’re doing.”

“Thank you for telling me, Sammy.”

Those pink cheeks though. Dean hasn’t seen Sam get wrong footed and awkward since the last time he was trying to hit on a girl, which was probably the one from the diner (Pippa? Piper?). It's pretty darn cute, to be honest, although Dean would never tell him so.

Sam has his hands dropped protectively in his lap, and Dean knows well enough that Sam doesn’t need his arms to beat anybody up (in a pinch Sam could probably just flatten someone with body mass alone) but it’s messing with his protective instincts, seeing Sam huddled in on himself, seeing him vulnerable. Dean isn’t going to say anything in case it comes out wrong, but he’s actually really glad that Sam doesn’t need him to be tough. Of course he would do it if that’s what his little brother needed, but – this is better.

“Do you want me to do your ankles next? Or the mask, maybe?” he keeps his tone steady, as if he's asking Sammy what kind of eggs he wants for breakfast.

“Ankles,” says Sam. His voice is low, rough. Dean wonders if he’s getting turned on or what. The thought is mildly off putting but he’s not going to make a big fuss about it.

“You want to lie down?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Sam stretches out, careful with his bound hands. He could get out of that if he really wanted to, Dean reminds himself. He’s not trapped. This is just – some kind of therapy, that’s all. Sam thinks this will help him relax, like a chick would enjoy a sea weed wrap or a – or a hot stone massage, or whatever. Dean is just a spa attendant, like that one case with the Mexican goat suckers.

“Okay?”

Whoops, another zone out. Dean thinks he’s getting a little better about that, but they still sneak up on him sometimes. He’s not used to having full control of the vess- his body. In the month that he was trapped in his mind, he seems to have lost the knack of keeping one eye on what the meat-suit is doing while he thinks.

“Yeah, I’m good, Sammy. Gonna do your ankles, don’t kick me.”

Sam snorts, so mission accomplished. Dean has a different kind of knot he wants to do here, kind of a long lasso with a couple of twists that has the rope lining up in tidy coils. It looks a little like a noose, so he makes sure the change the number of coils and then crosses the rope back in front of it in a diamond, because he doesn’t want to think about anybody being hung tonight.

“You’re pretty good at that,” says Sam. Jeez, Dean keeps almost forgetting he’s not alone.

“Yeah, I know my way around a knot. You too, I mean. Both of us.” He doesn’t want to bring up dad, but he bets they’re both remembering his marine-style lessons, half hitches and trucker’s and sailor’s knots, tied out of thick coils of spare tubing.

“Ready?” At Sam’s nod, Dean pulls smoothly on the end he’s holding and the whole thing slides together tight, the glide of the soft rope satisfying, like a snake through the grass.

Sam lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

“Good?”

“Yeah, that’s good. That’s really good.”

Dean is starting to think it’s the sense of pressure he likes, and this kind of wrap with lots of coils should spread out the sensation. He thinks he ought to do a little more, he knows how the people on the internet do it – sibery, or something, isn’t it. He’s seen the pictures. As far as porn goes it’s no Busty Asians, but he knows it’s a whole thing to some people. Kink.

Dean isn’t especially kinky, outside the thing with the panties, and that’s not his fault. He just – he likes to please his partners. That’s the most important thing to him. Left to his own devices he’d pick up lots of women and do it lots of times in different configurations, and sometimes there’d be moresomes, but there wouldn’t be any of this stuff, the BDSM stuff, unless the lady asked him for that. Then he’d probably try to give it to her. But seeing what he sees every day, the helplessness of the victims and the power the monsters that destroy them – yeah, he doesn’t see the sexy there. It’s no fun to play helpless when you really are helpless. It’s not a game anymore. Still, if somebody wants to slap him, or be slapped, or they want him to act like he would hurt them, he can still do that. He’ll get off on how into it the girls get, how much they want this, how grateful they are to get it. The sight of their faces when he finally tips them over, with his hands, his face, his body, his voice.

 _The body that Michael used, the hands that he used, the voice that he used_ – no, stop it, Dean, don’t go there.

“Dean?” Sam shuffles awkwardly, trying to turn around and see him. “Dean, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m good.” Dean puts his hands on Sam’s pajama covered leg as he sits up, feels immediately better. Maybe Sam needs the reassurance too, because the muscles under the flannel seem to relax a little.

Dean has to up his game here. He can’t be spacing out and worrying Sam when this is supposed to be reassuring him. Sam needs him to keep it together.

“I think – I’m ready for the blindfold now,” says Sam.

“You sure?” Dean wasn’t sure they’d get up to that today. If he was Sam, that would be a hell of a lot harder to take than the ropes, which would be laughably easy to get out of if Sammy really wanted to.

“Yes, I’m sure. I need it.” Sam bites his lip, keeping any more words back, but Dean doesn’t feel like pushing him. He wants to give Sam what he needs here – Dean needs to.

“Okay, is there anything I should know? Anything that makes it better for you?”

“You have to – talk to me. Don’t make me wonder if you’re there, don’t go anywhere, don’t – don’t leave me once it’s on.”

“I won’t, Sammy. You know I won’t.”

“You can touch me, if you want. It would – I would like that. But you don’t have to.”

“Touch you how?” Dean doesn’t want to guess wrong and screw this up.

“Just my – my hair, if you want to. Or my back. Maybe my – maybe my chest, if you want to. Nowhere weird.”

“Okay.” Dean isn’t in a place to judge what’s weird anymore. He picks up the sleep mask and turns it the right way, so the silky front will press just right over Sam’s eyes. The back has a Velcro clasp, but he doesn’t need it because the strap is elastic. For a beat he feels like he’s placing a crown on Sammy’s head, anointing him – then he slides it carefully down over his eyebrows, resting gently on the bridge of his nose.

Their faces are surprisingly close together, but Dean tries not to think too much about it. He just adjusts the way the mask is sitting, hoping that he can block out enough of the light to give Sammy what he’s looking for.

“How’s that?” he says at last.

“Mm,” says Sammy, throaty. It’s a happy kind of hum. Going pre-verbal, that’s gotta be a good sign.

“Lie back down now,” says Dean, because Sammy told him to keep talking, so that’s what he’s going to do. He puts a hand on his shoulder to help him back, feels protective because Sam is definitely out of it and might be disoriented – Dean has to help him find the floor. Sam sprawls, boneless, held together only by Dean’s ropes.

Touch him, Sam had said. So Dean does, petting over his shoulders where his hand is still clamped, but then carefully up to his face, stroking his forehead which is usually wrinkled with stress these days, gently over his hair around the strap of his blindfold.

“Feels good,” Sammy slurs. “Used to imagine you doin’ this – when it was someone else. Picture you brushing my hair back like you used to do when I got upset, when I was a kid.”

Dean feels so old these days that he barely remembers that – he feels like that was a different boy, a gentler boy, whose biggest problem was how to keep his little brother fed, or soothe him back to sleep after a nightmare. The monsters weren’t his problems, and he’d never doubted in those days that their father would keep them safe, keep all the evil things away from them as long as they did exactly what he said. The demon had caught them by surprise, that one time, but now they were prepared. Protected.

“Mm, thanks,” whispers Sam. Dean looks down to realize that his own hand has carried on petting, all on its own, without any conscious instruction. He's cupping Sammy’s cheek, his thumb tracing the lines around his nose and mouth, smoothing them out, rubbing gently over the round apples of his cheeks. Jeez he's such a sap. Here the world is ending - again - and it's all his fault - again - and he still can't stop brooding over this one little brother.

Dean gives himself permission, just this once, to do something he knows he shouldn’t do, but he can't help himself with Sammy’s beloved, trusting face so smooth and calm for once. He bends over stiffly and presses his lips to the crown of Sammy’s head, right over the hairline, so it isn't really a kiss – a kiss would be weird, obviously – this is just a touch, a claim, a benediction.

“I love you too, Dean,” murmurs Sam, his lips curling into a smile. It's weird to watch the expressions move across his face without his eyes to give them context.

“How you doing there, Sammy? You need anything?”

“Wanchu to change my hands, put em behind my back.”

“Yeah? You’d like that?”

“Mm hmm.” Sammy sounds drunk, lose and sloppy the way he only gets when he’s trying to match drink for drink with Dean. (Dean would never say anything, but it actually makes him happy that Sammy’s such a cheap date – maybe that means his liver isn’t scarred over like Dean’s – maybe that means he’s got a brighter future. Maybe he picked up some better coping skills along the way, instead of following dad’s footsteps like Dean has).

But right now Dean has a job to do, and that job is to help his little brother relax. He reaches to loosen the knots he tied first. Sammy whines, like the overgrown toddler he is, so Dean can’t help gripping his wrists in his hands instead, smiling at Sam’s inarticulate sigh of relief. “Stop fussing,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you. Just take it easy.”

Remembering his instructions, he doesn’t pull on Sammy’s arms or force them into place, he just – guides them where he wants them, then tucks them into the ropes.

“Yeah,” says Sam, twisting a little to feel it better – not to get away, just testing his range of motion. It isn't much. He seems a lot more vulnerable all of a sudden, and Dean responds without being fully aware of why, pressing closer to him so that his knees nudge gently against Sam’s ribs, his hand curling around Sam’s sharp shoulders. Is he murmuring sweet nothings? Shit.

He’s confusing himself with his own responses here. Sammy is the one tied up, but Dean is trapped in place just as good as Sam is. As long as Sam is laid out in front of him Dean is going to be right here, his hands in their current position, his eyes fixed on his brother’s face. He hopes Sammy is feeling really relaxed because he’s pretty sure _he’s_ breaking out in a cold sweat over here.

“Dean? Need to talk t’ me,” says Sam. “Want to hear you.”

“Well, pretty sure that’s the first time you’ve said that.” Dean’s fingers are petting Sam’s hair back again. Traitorous bastards. “Usually it’s all, shut up Dean, don’t be gross Dean, stop talking about Asian porn, Dean.”

“S racist,” Sam mumbles, rolling over slowly onto his side. The ropes cinch tighter. Dean gives himself permission to hover because Sam can't see him anyway.

“Are you uncomfortable? Everything okay? Nothing tingling or numb?”

“Mmn.”

 _That’s not an answer, Sam!_ Dean can see the red marks the ropes are leaving. Stark on his pale skin. is that bad? Shit, he could be cutting off circulation and he wouldn’t even know. If Sam’s too out of it to communicate, this is dangerous. Dean should pull the plug on this whole thing. 

“Sam!”

“M good, m good. S’ not too tight. Not too an’ thing. S good. Stop yelling. Shhh.”

Dean’s heart is still pounding, but he tries to chill out a little. Sammy’s fine. Dean isn’t hurting him. Sammy's okay. Dean doesn’t want to do anything that would break him out of this zen state. 

Jeez, Dean didn’t used to be such a pussy. It’s his little brother that does it to him.

This started out as an exercise for Sam, but now that he’s here, Dean wants something too. While he’s got Sam helpless, he wants to finally get what he’s been wanting for years, the chance to take care of his brother. No protests, no pushback.

It’s weird, but Dean accepts that he’s just a little weird right now. He wants to feed Sammy chocolate pudding and apple juice like he’s five again, fussy from an ear infection, angry to be missing kindergarten. He used to let Dean rock him, hum Led Zeppelin, stroke his hair. Dean never stopped wanting to. With Michael in charge he had felt nothing for so long that he’s just grateful to have a desire again. Other than the desire for a sparkling clean kitchen.

And they should have talked about this more, because Dean didn’t ask how Sam wanted this “scene” to end. He figures they both didn’t want to jinx themselves by assuming it would even work. They were both prepared to bail out right away. But now Sam’s half asleep and Dean is trying to decide how out of bounds it would be to curl up next to him. The carpet is soft and padded, and they’re both used to sleeping wherever they can find room to stretch out.

But he can’t leave those ropes, both because it might end up cutting off circulation and because he doesn’t want to risk getting caught that way. There’s not exactly an explanation he can offer at this point.

So he keeps one hand on Sam and reaches with the other for the thick woolen blankets that are draped over the chairs. It takes two to cover Sam – always has – because blankets are designed for normal sized humans. But if he can get them tucked around him just right they might feel like another form of restraint. He’ll leave the sleep mask because Sam’s so sensitive to light.

He uses the same trick he used to use on baby Sammy, changing his diaper or getting him out of the car seat after he’d nodded off. Rubs his back and whispers to him while he gets the ropes untangled, folds his arms carefully back over his chest, gets him on his back, his legs free.

“D’n?” asks Sam. Dean shushes him, rubs his back.

“I’m here, Sammy. I’m right here. Try to get some rest.”

Sam grunts but doesn’t protest, letting himself be bundled up.

The sight of Sammy all warm and cozy makes Dean feel something he hasn’t felt in a long time … sleepy. It’s dim down here. Quiet.

Sam shifts over onto his side and to Dean it reads like an invitation.

He settles down at Sammy’s back. The floor should be uncomfortable but with Sam’s limp, warm weight in his arms, and the smell of Sam’s clean hair – bitch showered for this, Dean should probably be flattered – and the sound of his deep, steady breathing … well. Dean can work with this.

It’s like the most perfect, boring bedtime story ever; _once upon a time Sammy was safe and happy and on track to actually get six hours of sleep, the end._

Dean knows it’s weird but he wants to do this again.

Sam hasn't been sleeping, isn’t eating. And yeah maybe Dean’s no better, but they’ve always been strongest when they’re together. Maybe if he can give in to this itch he’s got, they can both win.

He knows that means he has to take better care of himself as well. Eat a real meal even if he thinks it’ll choke him trying to get it down. Maybe make a little more small talk with the hunters from the alternate universe instead of hiding in his room. Sammy would appreciate it. He’ll – try. That’s all he can do really.

“I’ve got you, Sammy,” he whispers.

Freed of his restraints, Sammy shifts around and turns over, throwing one leg over Dean’s and sliding up to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s arm is probably going to fall asleep but that’s okay. Dean plants one more soppy kiss on the top of his head – don’t tell anyone – and lets himself drift off, suddenly able to do on the bare floor what he couldn’t do on a luxury memory foam mattress.

Sam waits until he’s sure his brother is asleep to turn his face into Dean’s neck, dropping a kiss on his shoulder as he goes. “And I’ve got you, big brother.”


End file.
